


Him

by kikorangi



Category: Gotham - Fandom, nymobblepot - Fandom
Genre: M/M, a lot of eye contact, but he kinda makes up for it, ed hasnt exactly been a great guy lately y’know, fluffy nygmob, i mean it’s not like he doesn’t have a good reason, os having a tantrum, talking about that weird but completely iconic and relevant any winehouse scene in 3.15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikorangi/pseuds/kikorangi
Summary: He loved someone once. A long time ago. He will not be so naive again.





	1. E.N|O.C

**Author's Note:**

> Heya!
> 
> Any criticism/feedback of any kind is welcomed! This is a new writing style for me so I’m always looking for ways to improve it!

E.N  
———  
He looks out of the green stained glass windows that fill the right wall of his apartment. Perhaps today is the day. Perhaps not. Perhaps everything he has done to prepare for today will be for nothing. Perhaps it is tomorrow. Perhaps it's in 17 days. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps. The word feels funny in his mouth, like when you say 'been' or 'Pocohauntas' over and over until they don't sound like words anymore. Now those words are just vowels and consenants that someone threw together a long time ago. Now those words are void. Perhaps today will be void too. 

Another word that has the same effect is although. Although, you never really think about the word although until you're watching Judge Judy and every argument the defendant makes starts with although. Although, he really likes watching Judge Judy. Yes he; the man staring out of his green stained glass windows. He who no longer has a name nor origin- only a story. A legend. A myth. A plan. A plan which might come in to fruition today. Maybe today also has no name nor origin. Maybe today is only a story, a myth, a legend. 

Think about it this way; who tells us things? Teachers.  Who tells them? The Department of Education. Who tells them? The Government. The Government controls all, any and everything. Usually, he doesn't consider himself a conspiracist, but this is a special case. They control everything and we, the bottom feeders, are forced to sit at the bottom of the ocean and suckle on coral and sadness for our lifetime. But someday, someone will free them. He will free them. 

He who rolls around the word 'perhaps' in his mouth like a peppermint candy, he who screams 'although' until the sound makes him ill, he who stares out of the green stained glass windows. 

Perhaps today is the day. Maybe today is void.

O.C  
———  
He, not the same he, sits alone in a dimly let dining room at a 10 person table. Rain cascades down onto the roof of his too-big house, making the comic book like 'pitter patter' as each drop hits the tin roof. Is that the meaning on onomatopoeia? He can't remember. He hasn't had time to read a dictionary over the span of his life. He supposes you don't need to read a dictionary though, that's why man built schools. But his schooling career was interrupted to soon by chaos and devastation- both of which are yet to leave. 

Everything stays right where you left it- a phrase meant only for inanimate objects. People, for instance, have a tendency to do the complete opposite. The human race could stand still, but curiosity is a wave that crashes into the shore of your mind too hard and too fast to ignore. He'd like to stand still for once. For a short period of time, maybe the world would stop turning. Maybe for five sweet seconds he could feel free of his responsibility, regret and disarray. 

Responsibility, regret, disarray. 

No one told him that these words were the rules to the game. Then, he didn't ask to be part of the team. He was thrust into this and now it's the only thing he knows. He doesn't know trust, nor love, nor happiness. Only power and fame. Fame in the game. 

He trusted someone once. It was only a short time ago, and the open wound on his heart reiterates the fact. He knows their separate ways were for the best, but best for who? Certainly not him. Not for he who dwells in the dimly lit dining room. No, he doesn't feel best. He only feels responsibility, regret and disarray. 

He walks to the bookshelf to his left out a dictionary. He opens it to the letter O.


	2. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
He walks down the empty pavement. Is it empty because of the dull weather, or because he is here? Could be both, could be neither. Could be one or the other. People don't like to think of the unknown, and that's what he is. A story, a myth, a legend. He had a name once, but the man behind that name no longer exists. He is a new man now. He is reborn. 

Does reincarnation exist? He knows that logically it can't, but what if it does? What if something changed, what if science evolved? The only one true way to know if to die. To die and be resurrected or to rot in the ground. Who started the idea of reincarnation? How did they know they had been reincarnated? Did they remember fragments of their past life? They probably just wanted their five minutes of fame. They just wanted a taste of power. 

Power. Fame. Both of these words can send a sane man mad. The idea of all of their needs and desires at their fingertips can make anyone do anything. No one values anything over fame and power. Maybe love. 

Love- noun 1 great liking or affection. 

He's felt that about someone. 3 someone's. The first two were important and significant to his character, but the last gave him strength. The last helped him to reach his true potential- truly understand who he was. 

Thinking about that makes his heart hurt and his fingertips fuzzy. Love is a razor blade, life is shaving cream. Our hearts are the gashes and chunks taken out when you're not paying attention. He doesn't want to love again. 

If evolution exists, he hopes they come back as flightless birds. 

O.C  
———  
He clutches at his leg. An accident a long time ago still effects his every movement. The pain burns through his body like a hot Australian fire. He breathes in deep through his nose and out slowly through his mouth. The pain begins to subside. 

He used to think about the pain a lot when he was younger, but there's no time for it now. No time for standing still. There is only pushing forward and outward, fighting against the rain. 

It's always raining in Gotham. If it's not raining, it's pouring. If it's not pouring, a storm is brewing. The weather is always overcast, as if mother Nature knows the evil resides here. So much chaos and crazy, and only one man fighting against it.   
Against the rain. 

No, not he who breathes a shaky breathe through the wildfire in his leg. He's apart of the crazy, the chaos, the confusion. He is an element on the stove, a character in the game, a bird in the flock. 

Or something like that. 

He is on the Gotham Pier. Although not in the centre, the pier seems to be the heart of Gotham City. Maybe not the heart. Maybe the focal point. Maybe the midpoint. Maybe the hub. Maybe the core. He can't think through the pain. He's said maybe too many times. 

He never had to think so much when he was around. The other he. The who he trusted, who he loved, who left him here to die. His suit looked nice against the dull, dank, dark Gotham sky that day. 

He looks up. There's not a drop of rain to be seen. It's time to brew at storm.


	3. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
He fixes his collar in the mirror on the fourth day of the fourth month. Perhaps, maybe, although, Pocohauntas. He's in a war with his nerves, but his nerves are Romulus and he is Remus. He will not win this fight. 

Today is not void. Things are going to change for him in this city. He is going to thrive today. He is going to show the city that he is not the once weak man he was. He is reborn. 

His tie chokes him, but he welcomes it. Maybe the right grip on his neck will keep his mind focused. A thick bead of sweat dribbles down his temple, leaving a trail of concern behind. He breathes in deep through his nose and out slowly through his mouth. The nerves start to subside. 

He hasn't been this nervous for a long time. But then, nothing has been as important as how he executes tonight's plan. 

The weird infactuation people have with with funerals is a practice he has never understood. Everyone gathers around a dead body and shared stories about the soul that once embodied the corpse. Then the body spends eternity as fertiliser inside its wooden prison. He has attended very few funerals, and at each he felt no emotional compromise. The only tears shed were those for obligation and social standard. He hadn't been attached. 

He was attached to someone once. 

Another bead of sweat drips from under his hat. He watches it roll down his cheek and fill the smile lines along the way. He hasn't smiled in a long time. He who sweats as though the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders.

The old him appears in the mirror. There's no time for that man- tonight he will be Romulus. 

O.C  
———  
He jolts out of bed with a wild look in his eye. Was that real life? Is he now awake or still dreaming? How does he know what's real? Perhaps nothing is real. Perhaps everything is an illusion created to keep us sane through our long, dull lives. Perhaps those classed 'insane' are living in a dim reality without the illusion. 

He was declared insane once. Criminally insane. A stamp on a piece of paper used to prove his instability. He served his time in Arkham, taking their sugar pills and swallowing their abuse. Even though he knew their treatments were a fabrication created to keep a facade in front of the Gotham population, he still expected to come out different. The change they made was superficial and, in the end, didn't stick around. The only long term change was that he knew he wasn't going to be a bottom feeder anymore. 

He looks at the clock- it's time to go. He has a date  with fate tonight. 

Worry is not new to him, but there was once someone who would help him tame him fears and anxieties like it were an angry bear- and sometimes it was. Sometimes all he could do was scream and cry until his throat was as raw as the wounds Arkham left behind. 

Misery has a new best friend.


	4. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
Scarecrow, Johnathan Crane, a mad scientist, a man. Reborn out of the ashes of his fathers fears and mistakes, he uses a mask to hide his insecurity and his hurt. He wears false courage and desperation on his front like pretty enamel pins- plain to the naked eye, but rusted at the joints. He is rationally insane, a mad scientist. 

The he who fashions himself in a tidy suit and bowler hat entertains a guest this evening in his small apartment. The guest is Scarecrow. They sit at a small round wooden table. The seats they rest on are old and rickety. A glass of water sits in front of each man, placed on small glass coasters, but neither of them will drink it. Crane's stare is both entrancing and terrifying, much like swimming at a beach with no life guards, or falling in love.  

'I can fulfil this request, but you must do a favour for me.'   
Nothing comes cheap or free in Gotham. That's one of the first things he ever learnt. You will not come across trust without losing part of yourself. You will not come across friendship without losing a part of yourself. Kinship and partnership have no meaning here- which never bothered him much. He doesn't have time for meaningless dignitaries and companionship, except for when he does. Except for when he lets it cloud his vision like rainclouds on a Tuesday, blind him like the words 'I care about you' and 'you are truly my only friend.'

But this does not last. He will not let the visor come down, he will not let the curtains close. He will stay wide eyed and aware to his surroundings. He will be be strong and resilient and above water. He will. He must. 

'I need you to kill a certain bird'   
He drowns. 

O.C  
———  
His umbrella flicks open to shield him from the rain. The Gotham sky is not kind as it spills water unto the city. But the sky will not drown him today. Today is crucial to the rebirth of his empire. Today he makes a friend. 

His crisp over coat blows behind him in the breeze. His freshly shined shoes splash into every puddle they find. His perfectly gelled hair sticks out of the back of his head like ice picks. Three curls stick to his forehead in small swirls. He is confident with his outfit and it shows in his posture. He means business, and he wants the world to know it. He wants his new friend to know it. 

Friendship is hard to come by and even harder to keep- he knows that more than anyone else in this godforsaken town. But it doesn't stop him; he needs someone by his side, he needs someone to keep him sane. He doesn't want to be alone. He can't be alone. He needs. 

He's never been able to see disloyalty. Partnership is a blindfold that he chooses to wear. Trust is a knife he stabs into his own back. Love is a razor blade he swallows with a smile. And in the end, after the betrayal and heartbreak, he does not learn. Everyone deserves a chance, everyone deserves to have someone, no one deserves to be alone. Does he deserve to be alone?

He who broke his heart. He who bound the blindfold to his head. He who used his own knife. He who forced the razor blade down his throat. Perhaps he deserves to be alone. Or, maybe he deserves to be with-

He knocks thrice on a plain wooden door. The sound echoes through the empty house to which he has arrived. His gloves looks glossy in comparison to the rest of his outfit. He shouldn't have worn the gloves. 

The door opens to reveal no host, but a dimly lit, abandoned lounge room. He walks through, face scrunched at both the dead and alive rodents scattered around the townhouse floor. The wallpaper is coming away from the wall in different spots around the room, and there is a foul smell coming from the far left corner.

'Jeremiah?' He calls out and waits for a reply, but is met instead with a figure stepping out of the shadows. He straightens his over coat.   
'Hello Oswald.'  
That's not Jeremiah.


	5. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
The sight of Oswald brings goosebumps to his body. Oswald dresses in the same long over coat as the last time they met on the pier, the last time they met eye to eye. But today, Oswald is not as confident. His body is rigid and his eyes glisten. 

In his own body, he feels the same. The wave of betrayal crashes into the rocky mountain side of his mind, but the tides of trust and friendship refuse to recede.

'Hello old friend.' The other man says. His voice does not waiver, but this is an old trick. He knows all of this mans tricks. He does not reply, but instead reaches to the gun clipped to his belt. He will not fail. 

Oswald scoffs at the motion. His head nods as he states 'yes, I suppose that would make sense.'   
'Don't make it harder than it has to be.'   
'You've tried to kill me before and failed, Ed, so why should this be any different-'  
'Stop talking!' He strides forward with his arm stretched outward and places the tip of the gun just before the surface of Oswald's forehead. He will not fail. 

Oswald does not flinch nor blink. Instead, he leans toward the gun with a mellow sigh. Not a sigh of defeat nor anguish, but a sigh of pity. Pity for his old friend. But he is not to be pitied! Oswald should pity himself! He should be scared! Worried! Confused! Why hasn't he asked any questions yet? Why hasn't he begged for his life? He has a gun to his head!

Unanswered questions. No time to ask. He needs to do his job now. He will not fail. He cannot fail. He refuses to fail. 

Pity feels weird on his tongue. 

O.C  
———  
The sheen from the green suit makes him smile. The suit is well looked after. Of course it is. He understands value. He probably has a specific routine he practices everyday when he wakes up to put it on and every evening when he takes it off. 

The suit is his skin. The suit embodies the persona he has created to show that he is more than his friend created him to be. The suit that he sheds every evening signifies the friendship they shared. The friendship he clearly still values. 

He had planned to see Jeremiah Valeska. This is the house they had chosen to meet in, but clearly he does not currently occupy it. This house is homeless, and Edward is an intruder. An intruder with malicious intent, and perhaps permission to do so. Yet another blindfold, another knife, another razor blade. And so he smiles. 

Ed looks dishevelled. Although he wears his hat and glasses, they do not mask the restlessness. He is a man of many talents, but creating a facade is not one. The gun in his right hand is not cocked. His left hand taps against his outer thigh at a fast pace. He is a machine with cogs that refuse to spin.

He used to live for this man. Perhaps he still does. Perhaps he still could. But at this time, he lives for himself. Ed's hand falters momentarily, and he notices the shorter mans smirk. Edwards face curls and twists into an inflamed expression. He moves closer, bending his elbow and sliding the gun to the side of his opponents head. Their faces rest inches from each other. 

He will not be scared of Edward. He will not let's this man take his heart again. Not with a gun to his head. Not with a razor blade sliding down his throat. Not with a smile.


	6. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
‘Don’t you dare move, Oswald.’ He is worried. He cannot fail. He was promised something very important to kill Oswald, but they’ve been standing here for too long. The moment where he should have killed the bird is over. 

He cocks the gun and pokes it harder into the shorter mans temple. He leans in close to his face and interrogates those blue eyes with his own green ones. But Oswald’s eyes don’t portray a single feeling- he is completely nonchalant. Although, the green eyes that live inside his own head show quite clearly the mental turmoil he finds himself in. 

His mind has become a feeding ground for doubt and resignation. They prey on his confusion like it’s a Friday night desert, as if it’s the richest chocolate the earth has to offer. His eyes spill the marinade of emotions oozing through his brain and he has been reduced to nothing but confusion. 

‘I should be level headed. I should be able to put this bullet in your brain.’ He says without saying. The softness in Oswald’s cheeks show that he understands.   
‘You won’t shoot me, Ed. If you wanted me dead, you’d have done it already.’ Oswald replies without a word spoken. His hand reaches out to the gun pressed to his temple and lowers it with his foe still attached. They do not beak eye contact, they do not breach communication. 

His hand has Oswald’s warm palm resting on it, and their faces remain close. His heart rate slows to a steady beat and the clouds in his mind clear. All anger and anguish drowns in the purity of his blue eyes. 

‘I-I can’t fail.’ He says aloud. This is the first of many admissions. Certainly not the last. 

O.C  
———  
A broken man stands before him. Torn between what’s right and what’s right for him. He has morals, but they’re hidden behind blurred lines and brimming anguish. He knows when to be good and when to be bad, he just struggles with determining when to lean which way. 

He sees a lot of those qualities in himself. He sees the way he has influenced his friend, and why they can’t cooperate together for long. He enjoys when they do, though- their partnership meant so much to him not long ago. He wants the good times back. He wants to laugh and smile and murder and sit by the fire drinking tea with his.... whatever they were when they weren’t just doing business. 

He confessed his love- plenty of times- but it was not reciprocated. Ed made it very clear he never felt the same, and the pain of that rejection and humility was like a bandaid being ripped off. His heart promised not to be so stupid again. His brain knew he would. 

Ed stands before him, allowing the palm resting on his hand to stay. His head hangs low in shame. It’s hard to see him like this, but he can’t let this man fool him. The last time he thought things with Ed may have mended, he was trapped and betrayed for Lee Tompkins. 

“What do you mean, Ed?” He removes his hand from Ed’s, rising a reaction from the taller man. He sniffs and puts the gun back in his belt clip. There’s so much hesitation with every move he makes; he rubs his face harshly, removes and replaces his hat, fixes his glasses. He looks on guard, like a teenager cutting class. He’s looking around expecting a teacher to walk in and drag him back to class.   
“Edward, I appreciate something is going on for you but I’m busy with other things so if that’s all you have to say-”  
“No! Please. I need you to stay. Just stay.”

He feels the bandaid being replaced.


	7. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
When did he become so soft? When did killing someone become an issue? When did killing Oswald become an issue? He’s done this before, he’s planned for every possible outcome, he’s replayed them all over and over in his head for weeks. Why is it that today is any different?

Oswald has that awful pity look on his face. He wants to smack it off, but he cant bring himself to do it. There is a barrier between them; a brick wall paved together by unresolved feelings and simmering angst. 

Logically, he knows that ghosts don’t exist. But he and Oswald are grieving the kinship they shared, and perhaps the only way to complete what he came here to do today is to lay his feelings to rest. 

 

O.C  
———  
Self preservation is etched into his skin like a carving. It runs through his veins and flickers in his brain. He knows how to get out of any and every situation better than he knows how to tie his shoes. After all he was, at times, a triple agent for many sides of the organised crime dice. He rolled doubles every time, and somehow made it around the board back to Go to collect his $200. 

He is a hurricane. He is a midsummer storm. He is a wolf in sheeps clothing. It’s hard to know if he’s talking about himself or Ed. They share so many traits after their months working and living side by side.  
“Are you going to tell me what it is you need from me? Or are we going to stand here all afternoon in this dank old townhouse sharing awkward eye contact?” He has to be blunt. He has to take control of this situation. He needs to self preserve. 

Ed sighs and walks a few steps back. He slides his glasses off with his left hand, and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other.  
“Okay, well, I brought you here to kill you.” He says it so plainly, like the previous moments of confusion and vulnerability have been swept under a rug. He scoffs at Ed’s transparency. 

“Yes, well, I assumed the gun to my head wasn’t how ‘The Riddler’ greeted all of his old friends.” He says the name with a sarcastic overtone. 

Ed scowls at the remark with dark eyes.  
“Yes, well, it’s evident I won’t be able to complete that mission.’  
“And why is that?” His short temper is flickering.  
“I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I'm worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?”


	8. O.C

O.C  
———  
Edward relays his riddle with a smug smile spread along his face. Oswald is not so amused. He walks up to Ed and lands a bitter blow with the palm of his right hand across the taller mans left cheek. Ed’s smile dissolves and he glares at the fuming man in front of him. 

He is infuriated. His blood boils throughout his body, burning up any sympathy for this mans previous ‘vulnerabilities’. 

“Ah! What was that for?” Ed grasps onto his red cheek and Oswald ignores the stinging sensation in his hand.   
“What- what was that for? Are you-? Ugh! You’re unbelievable!” Pent up anger pours out after weeks of being locked away.   
“Me? I just told you I didn’t want to kill you because I lo-”  
“No! Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” He screams at his opponent and throws his arms to his side. 

How is this confusing for Ed? He hasn’t spent the past 20 minutes with a man experiencing a plethora of emotions all at once. He hasn’t spent weeks feeling betrayed by someone he thought he could trust again. He hasn’t spent months grieving a friendship. 

He flinches away from Ed trying to reach out to him, like a child evading a needle. Like a mouse dodging a snake. But that’s exactly what Edward is- a poisonous snake whose fangs have sunk into his skin one too many times. 

“Hear me out, Oswald. I didn’t leave you in the bank on purpose. It was simply-”  
“Simply what? Business? ‘You mess with Lee, you mess with me’, right? And where is Lee now? Hmm?” Sarcasm spills from his mouth in oceans, and it promises to drown Ed. 

The Riddler looks down to his feet. Clearly his diamond in the ruff turned out to be a fake jewel. He holds in a laugh. 

He wants to stay mad, but he can’t be. He knows he can’t be. This exactly what he wanted for a long time. And although he thought he’d moved past it, perhaps this is where he still wants to be. 

He who claims to be a hurricane. He who claims to be a midsummer storm. He who is still in love with Edward Nygma.


	9. E.N

E.N  
———  
Oswald has been quiet for a while. He can see the cogs turning in his brain. He can see the confliction flickering in his ocean eyes. 

He didn’t know he was going to say that. Apparently spontaneous impulse is something he still has to master. But, although it resulted in being hit, he’s glad that his feelings are in the open. He’s sick of staring longingly out of his green stained glass windows. He’s sick of being played by people who can’t comprehend his genius. He’s sick of everyone trying to bring back Ed. He is not that man anymore and only Oswald knows that. Only Oswald understands that. 

Oswald breathes an exasperated sigh. He can’t do anything without dramatising it.   
“How do I know this is real? Moments ago you said you had come here to kill me.”

He bites down hard. He’s embarrassed about that now. He wishes it didn’t take almost assassinating Os to finally come out and say how he feels. But, just as he observed about Oswald, he can’t do anything without making it dramatic. They are two peas in a toxic pod. A pod he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss. 

“I was hurt, Oswald. You killed Isabella and I was hurt.” He feels the wound from the knife Oswald drove into his back. He truly did love Isabella- she understood him. She knew exactly what he was and who he was and didn’t care. She wasn’t scared of him. She was innocent and caring and he loved her. 

“You were jealous of her-” Oswald goes to object but he is stopped by a warm palm on his cheek “and I understand why you you did it now. But at the time I was hurt and betrayed.”

“So you killed me?” Oswald’s voice is soft but impute. His heart is beating through his cheek erratically, and the broken look on his face outlines the cold feeling of deceit that this man has felt since that fateful day on the pier.   
“I know what I did was wrong, but betrayal is a steel knife that you carved into my heart. Killing you was wrong, but killing Isabella wasn’t right.”

“I will admit that killing her out of spite was bad on my behalf.” Oswald leans into the hand resting on his cheek. They both share eye contact for a long seven seconds without anger, without pain, without malice. But Oswald breaks it too soon by taking the hand on his face and lowering it.   
“Why did you bring me here to kill me today?”


	10. E.N|O.C

E.N  
———  
Shame is a normal emotion. People feel shame for a varied range of reasons, from small matters like their hair or their shoes, to big matters like why they planned to kill someone. The face of shame, although, looks the same on every body it encompasses. 

He looks ashamed. His eyes have fallen to his feet and his shoulders have collapsed.  
“I went to see Scarecrow. He, uh, he said he’d help me with something if I killed you.” The answer to that query raises even more curiosity from Oswald. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth curls downward.  
“Why does he want me killed? What did you want from Scarecrow?” 

He looks back up at Oswald. Susceptibility creeps back onto his face slowly but surely, sneaking over the creases in his brow.  
“I’m not sure why Scarecrow wants you dead. He’s insane- he probably just wants to cause chaos for chaos sake. Or maybe he’s working with Jeremiah, which probably explains why you were told you would meet Jeremiah here and I was told where you’d be and at what time.” He is rambling- a trait generally seen by his other self. His weaker self. His self that only shows when he is subject to strong feelings for someone. His weaker self that he wishes he could repress around everyone but Oswald. 

“And what did you want from Scarecrow?” He breathes in deep through his nose and out slowly through his mouth. A technique to calm himself he uses regularly. A technique he learnt from Oswald.  
“He was going to make a serum to take away certain memories. Certain memories about a certain someone.”

Oswald looks confused before the penny drops. At first, he looks like he might explode. His face goes bright red and rosy pink. But after a few moments, he returns to his pale white self.  
“You didn’t want to remember being in love with me?”  
“I didn’t want to remember losing you. So i wanted it all gone.” 

 

O.C  
———

It’s a weird feeling to both love and hate something at once. Like fighting with your mum, or eating a really nice cake with too-sweet icing. Love and hate don’t fall too far from the same tree, and that’s why they’re such profound feelings. People feel them so passionately that it burns them up and possess their body in a blaze of glory. Some people are run by their love and/or hate, and others live beside it. 

He has never been one or the other. 

He places both of hands on either side of Edwards pink cheeks. He sits both hands with his thumb resting on the top of Ed’s cheekbones and his fingertips meeting the hairline on Ed’s neck. 

Ed is someone he loves and hates. When they fight they fight passionately, so when they love they love purely and vehemently. 

“Ed, you’re a fool. A damn fool. If he took away those memories, you would have forgotten the most pivotal point in our partnership.”  
“A what was that?” Ed asks innocently, and Oswald replies with a slow but demanding kiss. 

For five sweet moments, the world stops. Finally. For five sweet moments, everything stays right where they are left. He can relax. He can breathe. 

Ed’s lips are soft and sweet- a true contradiction to the persona he insists on embodying. But they are exactly as he expects them to be; a superfluous flavour of love and lust that he has the privilege to enjoy for just five sweet fucking moments. 

He pulls away first with a smile and an exasperated laugh. Ed’s reaction is a reflection of the same. They are a mirror of joy after months of resting deception and unfaithfulness. 

“You would have forgotten about your daydream of me singing Amy Winehouse to you.” He is haughty with his answer. Ed’s eyes widen and his mouth falls agape.  
“How-how did you-?”  
“I have my ways.”

Regret. Responsibility. Disarray. 

Finally, he is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! Hopefully you enjoyed this super small nygmob fic i wrote! As I said at the start, criticism is whole heartedly welcomed along with anything else you wanna say!


End file.
